Hunter and Fox (10 page)

The looks Byre got walking the street were even more unfriendly than usual. It wasn't illegal to be a Vaerli, but being here he wondered if perhaps things had changed in the last few days. At the market where he stopped to buy some sweetbreads he had to try three places before finding one that would serve him. Most of the sellers turned their backs and pretended he wasn't even there.

Not daring a public inn, Byre tried to find himself a quiet corner. Finally, he settled on wedging himself in a doorway behind an abandoned stall. He was still on edge since his last problems in a market.

“Spare a coin, young sir?”

The old woman was crumpled in the corner as if someone had abandoned her there. Byre had thought her a pile of old rags, but on closer inspection, both impressions could be correct. One eye was filmed over, though with illness or injury was hard to tell, and her dark face was a maze of lines and wrinkles. She held out a mangled hand but somehow managed not to make it seem like a plea.

He dipped into his flimsy pouch and pressed what little he could find into her palm. She hid it away so quickly she might have had the Seventh Gift. In return, she grinned and magically produced a small satchel of dried figs that she wordlessly offered to him.

Byre sat down next to her and offered the sweetbreads to her.

“Not at my age, son. Meat does horrible thing to my digestion.” She stared at him and then barked a laugh.

He laughed with her. “Forgive me asking, but are you of the Mohl tribe?”

“You're a sharp one.” She popped a fig into her mouth and began to suck on it with great relish.

“Seems I am lucky in my travels to meet so many of your tribe.”

The old woman gave him a piercing look.

“What is going on with this town?” Byre tried another tack. “I saw the wall, and I seem to be the only person not of the tribes of Manesto here.”

“Powder keg this place is,” she whispered. “The Portree, one of the lesser peoples to come through the White Void, proud folk they are. Always fighting. Always seeking to be free of the Caisah.”

“And for that the Caisah had to put up a wall?”

The woman nodded. “Said it was for everyone's safety. Keep them in line. But the Portree still have their ships.” Her eyes narrowed on him. “You shouldn't be here, young Vaerli.”

Byre looked at her sharply. How could she know how young or old he was? Past a certain age all Vaerli looked much the same.

She chuckled and poked him. “It's your walk, son. You ain't got none of that Vaerli swagger. All the old ones have it.”

Byre looked down at his fingers. “I wasn't raised by my people. My sister found me a family in the provinces who didn't mind caring for a Vaerli child.”

“Must be brave folk.”

“Were brave folk,” Byre corrected her.

The old woman nodded. “Hard times, hard times indeed.” She reached out and patted his hand. “But don't you worry, there is something else at work here.” Her voice was younger, stretching toward youth somehow.

Byre darted a look at her, but she had dropped her head to concentrate on her dwindling supply of figs.

“Tell me,” he went on carefully, “have you ever met the Sofai of your tribe?”

“Me?” She pointed at her thin chest. “When would I have done that?” She patted him on the shoulder, and her touch was light as a sparrow's. “You best be off and find that wagon south you need. Do not linger here.” And with that she tucked away her figs, nestled down into her mass of cloth, and went to sleep.

Getting to his feet, Byre looked down at her, but now she seemed just like any old lady. Shaking his head, he turned to do as she had suggested. He didn't like this place, and he didn't like the feeling that somehow something was following him. Fate or destiny, he didn't believe in either of those.

Evening was pulling in and unless he found a wagon heading in the right direction soon he'd be forced to find shelter for the night. The cluster of inns Ungro had headed for was his best chance, though it was very close to the brooding presence of the wall. He lingered there, chatting to the drivers, but they were only late arrivals. Few were setting out until the next morning and none in the direction he wanted.

Recalling his promise to Ungro, Byre turned away from the inns, becoming resigned to the fact that he would have to sleep in this ill-fortuned town. So preoccupied with this stroke of bad luck was he that he didn't notice the group of Rutilian Guard lingering by the town fountain. The first thing he heard was low chuckles.

Byre certainly didn't want to be drawing their attention, but curiosity got the better of him. He tried to see what so amused the Caisah's own. He thought they might be drinking ale, or telling lewd jokes, but frantic splashing cured him of that supposition. The Rutilians were far too busy with their sport to notice when he stopped in the middle of the square and stared.

A tall blond-haired Rutilian with his helmet in one hand was towering over the far smaller form of a dark-skinned, sloe-eyed woman standing drenched in the fountain. She had a beautiful purple turban on her head, and tucked among the flamboyant orange of her dress was a small child. She managed not to look scared, but the way she turned away from the guards said she was not comfortable.

One of the trio poked her in the shoulder. “What you doing this side of the fence, little bird?”

She dropped her eyes, and her voice was low with a slight tremor to it. “I have trade on this side. I was allowed to cross.”

“Well,” the third man, broad of shoulder and still wearing the intimidating helm, spoke. “It's nearly dark, and your kind shouldn't be about.”

The blond pushed closer until he was almost standing on her toes. “You Portree whores should be back where you belong. Or were you touting for business?”

The woman blazed at that. Her face tightened with anger before she whipped out a long-bladed knife and pointed it directly at the offending man's crotch.

Byre couldn't see things getting better from there, so he decided he really should say something. “I am sure there are plenty of whores elsewhere in this fine town. Why not leave this one be?”

The woman shot him a look as angry as the one she'd just used on the guard.

“Not that you're a whore…” Byre stammered, feeling his rescue attempt coming apart at the seams.

The guards laughed.

“Find your own slut,” said the blond, giving Byre a little shove.

His swarthy companion looked a little harder though. “You're a Vaerli…”

Byre felt their attention shift away from the woman, which was good for her, but could be deadly for him. He flicked his fingers at her, and hoped she would realize now was a good time to melt into the shadows. “Yes I am,” he replied with a lift of his chin.

The petty amusement in their faces slowly drained away. Though everyone knew his people had no power left, there was still residual racial fear.

“Boy, show us,” growled the smaller guard, shouldering himself forward, “you're not carrying any bladed weapons.”

Byre let out a little sigh. It was always the same. He might be nearly three hundred years old, but for some reason Rutilians always insisted on acting as if he was an infant.

“Of course he isn't,” the blond one sneered. “Without their powers, the Vaerli are all cowards.”

That shouldn't have bothered him. It shouldn't have made any difference after all these years. The woman, who was sliding as quietly as she could out of the fountain, shared a look with him. He could see she was smiling.

“Damn right.” One reached forward and shoved at him.

It was enough.

Byre had trained too long and in too many disciplines to let it all go to waste. Moving his weight to his right foot, he slid aside from the touch and smashed the butt of his cane up against the guard's elbow. The satisfying sound of crunching bone was accompanied by his opponent's surprised scream as he dropped to the ground in agony.

Byre didn't make the mistake of being overly gentle. Experience had taught him that once these things got started they moved quickly, and he didn't want to face three opponents at once as he had recently.

The blond one, who looked to have more battle training, did not leap in. He shoved the woman and she tumbled backwards once more into the fountain. No one wanted an angry mother with a knife at their back.

While their downed companion howled in pain, the other two drew their swords and spread out. These were no desperate bandits. They had experience slaying people, probably some of those had been Vaerli.

They came at Byre together, with both swords only a heartbeat apart. Catching the first one, he deflected it aside and whirled behind to parry the other. Mid-turn he swapped his stick to the other hand so that he caught the second attacker by surprise. His blow slipped up and under the defense, smashing into the man's temple. He dropped like a stone, but Byre was not quick enough dodging out of the way of the blond guard's riposte. The tip of the sword glanced across the top of his shoulder.

Stepping over his comrades, the tall guard smirked. “Not invincible without those Gifts of yours, are you? I should tell you how many of your kind we've killed. How many we captured. How they screamed and begged for death.”

Byre ignored his boasts and the pain in his shoulder. He waited calmly in the high guard position, cane held above his head, weight balanced through his feet.

His opponent lingered just beyond striking range with his sword before him. “I've probably seen more of your kin than you have!”

Such a jibe might have provoked him once, but that was at least a hundred years in the past. Since then he'd learnt patience and acceptance.

The Rutilian attacked swiftly. Drawing a long curved knife he tried to get within the spiraling curve of Byre's swinging cane. He was fast too, catching all the blows the Vaerli aimed at knee and head.

Byre drew back, his brow furrowing. He had to admit the Seventh Gift would have been useful at this point, that or an actual blade.

Behind him, he could hear the spluttering woman and her indignantly wailing child climbing once again out of the fountain. Around the square the darkness was beginning to come alive; there was the sound of shoes on the pavement and the feeling of held breaths all about them. The guard knew they were drawing a crowd. He darted glances over his shoulder.

Byre closed and with a lunge managed to sweep his opponent off his feet. He lay there looking up at Byre with white-faced fear.

The dripping woman stepped down next to the Vaerli. “You should go now,” she said softly.

He looked up as figures emerged from the darkness, dark faces, solemn and angry, all of them, he guessed, Portree.

“We work on this side of the wall,” the woman went on, “but each night we must go back. My kin will see me home safe.” She stepped over the wide-eyed guard and made her way toward the crowd. “You should not linger here. People will have seen a Vaerli fight.”

He followed her gaze up to the windows of the surrounding houses. He moved away but lingered just beyond the corner of the house to listen.

They had forgotten the guard as if he didn't exist. They offered him no words, but no violence either. The woman spoke to her quiet kinfolk. “You see it is happening. The Vaerli are rising. Now it is time for us to do the same.”

Byre heard their murmurs of assent, the sound of their retreat, and a chill settled over him. They had been expecting him. The Sofai had spread the word before him like an unfurled carpet.

Byre didn't like the feeling that fate was dogging his footsteps, and yet since the dreaming had begun, it appeared he could not avoid it.

T
alyn tried to maintain her calm, but being dressed like a Manesto sacrificial heifer was humiliating in every way she could imagine. Still, when Kelanim's maids invaded her small room to begin the process she managed silence. It was not their fault, and they would only be whipped if the task was not done.

Besides, they were frightened enough. Dressing the Caisah's Hunter must be perceived as a dangerous assignment.

A pair of huffing servants lugged a great steel bath up the stairs, followed by a trail of grumbling maids with bucketfuls of steaming water. It was scented with rose and jasmine, and Talyn could at least appreciate the luxury of taking a bath. She stripped off her clothes and climbed in with a sigh. Weeks tracking bounties didn't afford many opportunities to wash.

The maids unbraided her hair from its long confinement and cleaned it as gently as possible. Talyn relaxed into the pampering and, closing her eyes, let them wash her body.

One maid couldn't help herself. “There are no marks,” she whispered into her companion's ear.

But Talyn heard—and smiled. They would expect her body to be covered in scars and bruises, but a Vaerli was not subject to such effects for long.

Eventually the maids dried her hair and combed through sweet-scented oil to make it gleam. Climbing out of the bath, she let them dry her with thick towels and begin to build the image the Caisah had commanded. They were not done with scenting her. Rose oil was applied against each pulse point before she was laced into the dress.

At first they were tentative but, with her silence and compliance, they gained confidence. Tugging and pulling her more vigorously, they worked her body into the shape demanded. Her long dark hair they curled with hot irons from the fire and swept up in a thick pile on the top of her head. They held the weight of it in place with many tiny, diamond pins.

The fashion was for pale skin so they tried at first to disguise hers with powder, but when she remarked that the Caisah wouldn't like her to not look like herself, they quickly removed it. Instead they settled for reddening her lips with ochre and coloring her eyelids with malachite green. They even filed back her nails and placed over their broken ragged forms ones carved from ivory, which they then painted with eggshell gloss. Last they fastened a bright choker of moonstones around her neck, similar to the collars the Caisah's hounds wore.

Looking in the mirror, Talyn couldn't decide if she liked what she saw or not.

The youngest maid with wide blue eyes couldn't help herself. “You look beautiful,” she blurted out.

Talyn regarded her in the mirror, watching as she turned red and endured the nudges of her companions. “Thank you,” she replied coolly. Now if the inside only matched the outside.

The maids scuttled off, no doubt to tell tales in the kitchens about how they had survived an encounter with the Caisah's Hunter.

“Not that I look like a Hunter,” Talyn remarked to her reflection before turning and going down to face the real humiliation.

The night could not be more lovely, warm and languid like the Court itself. They lingered outside the Grand Ballroom in more splendor than usual. All were masked and cloaked. Every inch of expensive cloth must have been stripped from the city, hundreds of wild birds must have given their lives for the feathers that adorned the women, and seamstress must have gone blind sewing the sea of beads on all the dresses.

As she walked down among them, the only one with a bare face, Talyn could feel their eyes on her. Peering out from behind fantastical masks, all of the looks were cold and calculating. She had never felt more naked. It seemed the anonymity gave them courage to examine her minutely.

She immediately knew the Caisah. He'd dressed as the scion, the King of Fire. He turned toward her. His head was framed with a corona of gold and copper spires replicating the sun. The mask covered only from his mouth up, and she could have identified those lips anywhere. Every time they opened she listened. He was bare-chested, the smooth expanse painted with gold dust, while around his hips he wore the
dulma
, the ancient Manesto short wrap long since fallen from fashion. She could not guarantee it was not a garment he had worn as a child, so little did they know of where the Caisah came from.

He liked to show his body, perfect and young as it was. The smooth hairless chest and well-formed legs were those of a man in the prime of his life. Such a display of agelessness could only have been designed.

His costume said much, and it was not likely that any of the Court missed its significance either. Not content with ruling all on the earth, he aspired to be something even more godlike. On anyone else, it would have been sacrilege.

Talyn paused, not sure what to do. It was a masque, and she knew she was not supposed to be able to tell who the Caisah was. And while the rest of the Court was good at playing these sorts of games, she was not. Nor did she feel comfortable talking to anyone else. The games of courtiers had never been her games.

“Impressive, isn't he.” Kelanim's voice was unmistakable, and when Talyn turned she thought the same could have been said of the Mistress.

She had never seen such a sight, the beautifully crafted cat mask in hammered silver and the brilliant blue dress covered with a sea of sapphires, all of which was more than a poor farmer could hope to make in his lifetime. Her tiny waist and heaving bosom were every male's fantasy.

It helped, actually. Before, Talyn had thought she was hideously overdressed, but on seeing the Caisah's mistress she realized she was practically demure. Stifling a smile, she replied easily, “The King of Fire is always most impressive.”

“You're thinking about taking him to your bed.” Kelanim stepped closer, forcing Talyn to look up.

She was not intimidated. “If I knew who such a fine figure of a man was…I might.”

Kelanim's breath hissed over her teeth at Talyn's admission. The cat leaned closer. “You are out of your depth here. This is my hunting ground. Do your part, which is to stand there and frighten the Praetors. Nothing more.” With that, the enraged Kelanim sailed off toward where the ballroom doors were opening.

It irked Talyn, but the mistress was right. If she did try to play the game that way, she would not win—and perhaps the Caisah only tolerated her because she did not.

She stood there silent as the murmuring crowd followed after the Caisah.

“Do you need an escort, milady?”

Talyn did not recognize the voice. But, turning, she found with some surprise someone addressing her directly. She hadn't expected the question to be for her. The man's clothes were dark and unremarkable, so he was probably one of the lower gentry, a minor Praetor's son. But it was the mask he wore which surprised her.

Talyn had to bite back an exclamation. The curved fanged face was a Vaerli ceremonial headdress, a representation of Morleth, the first Named Kindred. She had seen many such masks used in the remembrance plays. It swallowed up the man's head so that only his eyes and mouth were visible.

“Did I startle you?” he asked mildly.

It was nothing. He was just another foolish Manesto lord and had probably picked up the headdress at a market or in some dusty attic without knowing its significance. Once, it would have been unforgivable for any hand but Vaerli to touch such a sacred object.

Stuffing down any comments, she instead tried to smile pleasantly, as was her part. “I am never startled.”

He bowed a little, so she could not tell if he smiled or not. “Then you should not be surprised to be offered an escort. Such beauty should never go unaccompanied!”

Talyn held in a sigh. It was obvious he was merely another young upstart, probably in from the country, trying to make an impression by approaching the Caisah's Hunter. Still, she had not had any other offers and she did feel very much at sea.

He loomed over her, tall and broad of chest. Most of the time Talyn forgot completely how small she was when compared with the rest of the world, but at close quarters she could admit a desire to be a little taller. It never daunted her in anything. It was just she was sure that at this moment he was gloating a little.

She took the young man's arm and let herself be led into the column of people filing into the ballroom. Her unnamed partner was examining her.

Turning her head slightly up, she glared at the boy—it was usually enough to put people in their place. Something about the vast darkness of Vaerli eyes inevitably caused a retreat.

The lips beneath the mask were indeed smiling, but he remained silent.

They moved forward another few feet in the press of people and Talyn found herself concentrating very hard on the backs of those in front of them.

Finally she marshaled her thoughts. “I don't know where you come from, boy, but it is rude to stare.”

“I was not staring,” he replied softly so that only her ear would catch his words. “I was merely dazzled by your beauty.”

On that line she choked; several people half turned their heads toward her. She couldn't help retorting under her breath, “I am old enough to be your grandmother's grandmother's grandmother.”

Her self-appointed partner leaned in conspiratorially. “Ah, but I know your taste runs to younger men.”

It was not said with any malice, but a spear of shock ran through Talyn. What did he know? She had never felt any shame in her rare dalliances with men. She lived and breathed, therefore she had needs like any other creature; still, she had always kept them quiet. The eyes of the Court and the Caisah were sharp, and she wanted no perceived weakness to reach them.

Steadying her breathing, she was at a loss to know what to say.

He touched the back of her hand, and there seemed to be real concern in his voice. “I hope I have not offended you, milady. I was merely saying that to you we must all be boys.”

So perhaps he meant nothing by it, but either way she was very much out of her depth. Talyn knew very well that when it came to trading subtlety and barbs she was unskilled.

The ballroom, seen intermittently through the press of people, was magnificently lit by hundreds of candles twinkling in cut-glass candelabras. The gold leaf gleamed on the rising pillars, and the musicians high above in the gallery were playing a sweet tune.

The man at her side caught his breath, and she smiled with satisfaction. Whatever backcountry praetorium he came from was obviously not equipped with such grandeur. Through the milling, scurrying multitude the Caisah and his mistress could be seen within a circle of admirers. Their outfits fooled no one, though certainly they would all be pretending as hard as possible.

“Do you think the Caisah will require your presence all night, milady?” her escort asked her, softly leaning over slightly so that no others might hear.

“Hopefully not,” Talyn replied. She could feel the tenseness of his arm under all that finery.

“Then may I ask for a dance later?”

“You don't even know if the Caisah's Hunter can dance…”

“All Vaerli can dance and sing like scions. I will find you later.” With that he drifted off and was lost to her.

That was certainly the strangest conversation she had been part of for many years; not many bothered to learn anything about her people.

“Talyn.” The Caisah was at her side when she turned. It was obvious that he had been standing there for some time. Those storm-cloud eyes were narrowed and his lips unsmiling. He used her name so infrequently that she did not like the sound of it now.

“Whom were you speaking with?” His voice was smooth enough, but the tense lines of his body said far more.

“No one of consequence.”

He turned slightly, seeking out her former escort in the throng, and when he turned back, calm seemed to have been restored. Taking her hand, he led her back into his circle.

Half a dozen vassal lords and Praetors of various regions of Conhaero were dutifully impressed with meeting the Caisah's Hunter. They all smiled pleasantly and nodded, but Talyn could see something strange in their eyes—disappointment. Without her armor, sword, or pistol they did not recognize her as dangerous.

It was a sad state of affairs. Once, anyone would have deferred to a Vaerli; now, her people had diminished so much as to become almost invisible. All these sycophants saw was a short, attractive woman. They didn't feel her power without the trappings the Caisah had given her.

Kelanim saw how they treated the Hunter even if their master chose not to. She could not hide all of a satisfied smirk behind a fluttering fan.

Talyn gave her a hard look and reminded herself that the mistress would be dust while she remained. The thought was not as comforting as it been in the past.

So she stood there silent, even her usefulness as an object of interest gone. Eventually when the conversation flowed to other things, she was able to slip away and make a circuit of the ballroom. It certainly was a lovely spectacle: the flashing jewels, a thousand hues of swirling dress, and everywhere laughter. They were laughing in the home of her people and their merry feet were treading all over the bones of her ancestors.